


The Opposite of Amnesia (Broken Bones Redux)

by flyingcarpet



Category: Divergent Series - Veronica Roth
Genre: Allegiant Alternate Ending, F/M, Memory Loss, Remix, memory serum
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-28
Updated: 2015-06-28
Packaged: 2018-04-06 13:27:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,626
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4223427
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flyingcarpet/pseuds/flyingcarpet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The boy wakes up and knows nothing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Opposite of Amnesia (Broken Bones Redux)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [scribblemyname](https://archiveofourown.org/users/scribblemyname/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Name These Broken Bones](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2795675) by [WriteItSmall (scribblemyname)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/scribblemyname/pseuds/WriteItSmall). 
  * In response to a prompt by [scribblemyname](https://archiveofourown.org/users/scribblemyname/pseuds/scribblemyname) in the [remixmadness2015](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/remixmadness2015) collection. 



> Title from Fall Out Boy.

The boy wakes up and knows nothing. He's lying on a hard surface, looking at the blue sky. When he sits up he can see he's on a road that's cracked and rutted, with grass growing out of the crevices. He has no idea if he's ever been in this place before. He can't even remember his name.

He's wearing cargo pants and a heavy jacket, and he pats down the pockets. There's a knife in one pocket, a few pieces of paper, and something that might be food. He finds another knife strapped against his leg inside one boot, and smiles. 

The papers in his jacket pocket are covered with words he doesn't understand, though he can read them with no problem. _factions... allegiant... bureau... damaged._ He puts those away and resolves to think about it later. But one of them is different. It's a note, written in a small, curling script unlike the spiky penmanship on the other pages. 

_IV-_

_Come back safe. No matter what, this will all be over soon._

_-VI_

It's not much to go on, but like the knives and the food, it says enough. He knows a few things about himself now: he's armed and prepared for hardship, and someone is waiting for him. He still doesn't know his name, but the note is addressed to IV, the number four. That'll do.

For now, he needs food and shelter. There's an abandoned building nearby, and a looming city on the horizon. He doesn't know what happened to his memory, but he intends to find out.

He starts walking.

* * *

The girl wakes up in a plain white room, under white blankets. There's a man sitting in a wheelchair beside her bed. "Hello, Beatrice," he says, and his smile is vicious. The name sounds strange to her, unfamiliar. 

"What do you remember?" he asks. The answer is nothing. She doesn't even know her real name, if it isn't Beatrice. Maybe it is. She tries to reach out mentally and search her memories, but her mind is like an empty box with nothing inside. Still, she feels instinctively that this man is not trustworthy. 

"What's going on?" she asks, putting a hand to her head and leaning forward so that her hair hides her face. "Where am I?"

She doesn't want to tell him anything, but he seems to know without being told. "Interesting." Something in his face is both eager and cruel, as he makes a note on a clipboard. "It seems that you aren't resistant to every serum we produce."

She scans the room for exits, for any items of strategic value. She has to get out of here. Wherever that is.

* * *

A week later and he's found almost nothing to eat, but plenty of abandoned buildings. Plenty of desperate, armed people, too. At least his arm's stopped bleeding.

He stumbles out of a broken building and onto the street, and a girl whirls around in surprise, brandishing a knife. Whatever she thinks, he isn't looking for another fight. 

There's a bandage taped to her shoulder, and his eyes lock onto it. He's done all right on his own so far, but he needs medical supplies and this girl obviously knows where to get them.

He slips his own knife into a pocket and holds up his hands. "I need a bandage." If he ever knew how to ask for help, the memory is gone along with his name. "Please."

Her expression doesn't change, but she nods quickly and jerks her head toward a side street. She turns and walks quickly away, and he follows.

"I'm Four," he tells her.

"Like the number." It might be a question, but he doesn't answer. It's the only name he has. Eventually she says, "Tris."

"Tris," he repeats, and the name feels easy and comfortable on his tongue, feels like home in a way that nothing else has since he woke up on the road a week ago.

* * *

There's something familiar about him, when everything else is strange. She lets him stay for that reason. That's all it is, she insists to herself. Not his golden-brown skin or his hungry eyes or his muscular grace. 

She doesn't need another mouth to feed. She should send him packing, now that his wound has healed. 

She doesn't.

Instead, when the cold wind blows in off the marsh and slices through the holes in their rundown shelter, she leans against his side and lets him wrap her in his arms. He's warm, and it feels good to be close to another person.

What takes her by surprise, though, is the way his embrace feels so right, how his touch is a memory all by itself. And beneath the dirt and grime of this wasteland, the smell of his skin makes her feel safe.

His arms tighten around her waist as she snuggles closer, drawing the musty blankets around them as snowflakes drift in the corner of the room. Stubble scrapes against her scalp and she shivers, biting into her bottom lip. 

After that, it's only a matter of time before she tilts her head up and meets his lips in a kiss that's more gentle than she intended. 

She can't remember anything from more than a few weeks ago: no home, no family or friends. She doesn't know if she's a virgin, or if she's ever even kissed anyone before. But somehow this wiry, half-starved boy's lips feels somehow familiar. It's almost as if they've done this before.

His lips slide smoothly against hers, and she doesn't hesitate to angle her head, deepening the kiss without knowing how.

Four's hand slips under the waist of her shirt, hot against the small of her back, and she breathes into his ear. He presses open-mouthed kisses along the column of her neck, sending shivers across her skin and leaving her gasping for breath.

An icy wind is still blowing through the walls, but Tris has stopped noticing. Her pulse is pounding in her ears and chest, in her stomach and thighs. She arches her back and presses her small breasts against Four, and he reaches out to touch with his long fingers. 

It isn't enough. She wants more, more, more.

Despite the cold and the danger, she rears up and pulls her shirt off over her head.

Four pulls back and traces her collarbone with one hand, the calluses in his fingers dragging softly across her skin. "Birds," he says in a quiet voice. Then, touching first one shoulder and then the other, "Fire. Hands."

She hadn't paid much attention to the ink that decorated her body, in the few spare moments of dressing or hurriedly bathing. Vanity hadn't seemed important when they were struggling to survive, but the admiration in his voice and the flash of hunger in his eyes makes her feel warm all over.

Reaching out with sudden desperation, she grabs at the layers of thin shirts covering his chest and tugs. Four gives her a flash of white teeth and then his chest appears inch by inch. He twists his spine and turns to discard his clothes, and Tris sees a glimpse of black layered against the olive skin.

"Can I see?" she asks, hands shaking a little at the powerful wave of memory that sweeps over her. Before, she thought he seemed familiar. Now she knows: they've been here before, one way or the other.

What she sees next confirms it.

Four twists around and peers awkwardly over his shoulder, trying to look at his own spine. "I didn't even remember that was there," he says. "What is it?"

The room has only one unbroken window, but the moonlight reflects off the fallen snow outside to make a sharp silver light. Tris takes Four's hand and pulls him over to the window, then she touches each tattoo in turn. "Tree. Scales. Eye." She pauses and takes a deep breath, steeling herself before touching the next two symbols. "Fire. Hands." These are identical to the designs inked into her own shoulders. 

"We're the same," she says. If she's being honest, she's known it all along.

"We are," Four agrees, and there's no doubt in his voice.

* * *

After the snow stops falling, they leave their makeshift home. Four's arm has stopped aching and Tris has a smudge of dirt across her forehead. The strange tune of mystery and curiosity that's been humming in his veins since he woke up with no knowledge of his life has eased. He still doesn't remember names or dates, places or facts in his history, but he has Tris. Her presence eases his mind.

Whatever else happens, they belong together. It's the only thing he knows with any certainty, but it's enough.

In the distance they can see the tall buildings of the city pointing up toward the sky, surrounded by the massive fence that pens them in. There are military vehicles on the long dark road, driving fast toward the city. As they draw closer to the pavement, Four can see that each truck bears a round symbol on the side. 

Tris points to the closest truck. "I recognize that seal," she says, in a dark voice. "The Bureau. It's where I -- where I was, before." There isn't much _before_ in their lives, so he knows what she must mean. When she woke up.

It's only a moment later when screams begin to echo across the snow-swept fields. The long line of trucks keeps moving.

Four turns to look at Tris, and finds her already looking at him, gray eyes hard in the bright winter light. 

Neither of them speaks. He raises one eyebrow, and Tris nods decisively.

Together, they break into a run. The city needs their help.


End file.
